The Patrician

by Joan Kayse

  The lying bitch.

  Oh, the memories had returned, in excruciating detail—the stench of the taverna, the solicitous proprietor, the dreary back room.

  The fragile beauty with bright luminous emerald eyes, full mouth and taut breasts. The image of the heart shaped face looking up at him, feigned concern marking those delicate features was seared into his mind. He stifled a groan. That’s where he had made his mistake, allowing the vixen to beguile him with her unnatural beauty.

  He ran his tongue over his dry, cracked lips and allowed the anger to surge through his veins. No amount of lying would save her from his rage when he found her. And he would find her, extract payment, make her beg for his mercy.

  After he gained his freedom.

  The voices overhead grew louder. Through slitted eyes, he watched as three men, including the one who had visited him that first day descend the ladder. It was the first time he had seen anyone save a scrawny boy who had brought him daily rations of moldy bread and stagnant water.

  Approaching him, they fanned out on three sides. Jared made no effort to conceal his contempt. The one he had named Emperor, for his sarcastic replies, met his gaze with the usual amusement. “Welcome to Brundisium.”

  “Go to hell.”

  A sharp pain radiated along his rib cage from a kick by the man on his right. Reflexively, Jared rolled to that side to splint the throbbing, cursed his weakness, his lack of weapon, the chains, the lying bitch.

  “Tsk, tsk,” the Emperor said, nodding to the other men, who grabbed him by the arms and dragged him to his feet.

  Jared’s legs trembled, protesting the weight but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of falling. Instead, he tightened his muscles and stood up straight, refusing to lower his gaze.

  The Emperor shook his head and produced a length of rope which he expertly wove beneath Jared’s upper arms. Jared winced as the bindings were pulled taut. With his wrists still firmly bound in front of him, he was effectively immobilized.

  “I tell you again,” he ground out. “This is an illegal transaction. I am a Roman citizen. It is against the law to sell a citizen.” That he acknowledged that part of his life said a lot for the seriousness of his present situation.

  “Still full of crafty lies.” Emperor spit on the floor, “By the gods, we’ll be lucky to get four hundred sestarces for your worthless hide.” He motioned to one of the men who produced a grimy length of cloth from his belt.

  “You whoreson. . .” The cloth muffled Jared’s protest, but not the seething anger raging inside. He bucked and pushed against the men as they released him from the chain, straining against them even as they looped a thick leather strap around his neck. Even in his weakened state, it took all three of them to hustle him to the hatch and up onto the deck.

  The brilliance of the sun seared into his eyes, blinding him, shocking him to a standstill. The Emperor’s henchmen took advantage of the break in his resistance and pinned him against the deck railing while the rest of the cargo was unloaded.

  Jared swallowed, the bitter, sour taste of the cloth causing him to retch. The world around him was blurred but the sun’s rays warmed his chilled skin. He tilted his head, savored the sea scented breeze that brushed his cheek. The scent of freedom.

  In increments, his vision adjusted and he was able to see. The cretins still held him against the railing but it gave him a good view of the dock. He’d only sailed here a few times over the years, the port deemed less strategic than Ostia and definitely less so than Alexandria for the purpose of his shipping concern. On his left, two ships bumped against their moorings.

  Jared strained to see what flags they flew. He knew all the merchants that traded between Rome, Egypt, Greece, Persia and beyond. They would be able to verify his identity, put an end to this insanity. But that nugget of hope sank at the realization neither of these ships few banners.

  Fighting the weight in his chest, Jared’s attention was drawn to the activity on the shore. A continuous line of slaves, backs bent, dressed in little more than rags, legs and arms scored with lash marks, ferried amphorae and bundles of wheat off the vessels to the landing. Dully, he watched them struggle up a steep, winding path to a trio of stone block warehouses and in moments start the journey back down for more cargo.

  How many times had he supervised the handling of goods by his own slaves, never giving a thought that they were anything more than another of his properties? But his slaves were well treated. Fed and clothed. Able to earn coin towards their freedom. Now he was the commodity.

  Jared’s leash was jerked hard, pulling him away from the rail. A sharp jab from an elbow propelled him down the ramp onto the dock. The muscles in his legs quivered from the shock of standing on solid ground. Pride fueled his determination not to collapse into a heap, anger had him struggling against his captors. Jared bit down on the gag when the sharp sting of a whip slashed across his legs. Emperor’s harsh laugh added to Jared’s rage but when he motioned them forward, he could do nothing save follow at the end of his tether.

  It was not far from the harbor to the center of the town. A group of street urchins ran along beside the group, shouting taunts and throwing whatever handy missiles they could find. A large, rotten turnip grazed Jared’s cheek. His muffled growl and piercing glare sent the pack scrambling.

  The Emperor laughed and jerked on the strap, leading Jared like an animal through the foul muck of a drainage ditch while he strolled clean and dry along a raised walkway. Jared kept his eyes on the ground, concentrating on every step. It kept him from slipping and being choked by the halter, and relegated to the edges of his mind the gnawing realization that gaining his freedom might not be such an easy task.

  And without his freedom, he would never get his revenge against the barbarian witch.

  At the sixth street on the left, Jared’s captors veered off the main thoroughfare and headed down a series of alleyways. The scent of roasting meat permeated the air. Squawking fowl blended with the calls of merchants enticing buyers to their wares. The thin, shrill sound of a reed scratched against his ears along with a discordant clang of a cymbal. They were close to a marketplace. Jared slipped in the muck. But they made a sharp turn down another alley. It ended at a ramshackle compound of wooden stalls and pens, filled with miserable looking people.

  Greetings, Kest!” The Emperor sang out the salutation to a tall, lank man dressed in a bright blue robe.

  The man raised his head and peered down his hawkish nose at them. “What do you want, you thief?” The derision in Kest’s voice did nothing to dampen the Emperor’s perpetual cheerfulness.

  Emperor handed the end of Jared’s leash to one of the other men and raised his arms expansively. “Is that any way to greet a long lost brother?”

  Kest folded his arms across his chest. “Yes, if that brother is a thief.” He stalked up to the Emperor and poked a bony finger in his chest. “Those boys you sold me last time were useless. Every one of them died from the castration and the Senator from Rome who bought them was none too pleased.”

  The Emperor shrugged his shoulder. “What do you expect? They were barbarians.”

  Kest snorted, waved his hand in dismissal. “Go back to your pirating and leave me in peace.” He accepted another scroll from an assistant and began to walk away.

  “As you will. I’m sure your friend Farid will be eager to see my wares.”

  Kest stopped and turned around, avarice clearly warring with principle behind his bloodshot eyes. He tossed the scroll to the boy and walked leisurely toward them, where he punched Emperor on the arm, raking Jared with a practiced eye. Jared shifted, clenching his bound hands into fists. How many times had he seen that same shrewd light in the eyes of his suppliers?

  “Dear brother, you know my competitor is a liar and a cheat. What do you have?”

  “See for yourself,” Emperor answered merrily.

  Jared clenched his teeth at that infernal chuckle. God, how he wanted to strangle the man. But not
as much as the slaver now inspecting him like some sort of prized bull. Using a short, solid stick from the belt at his side, Kest poked and prodded— his legs, his arms, his back, finding with uncanny accuracy every bruise and cut on his body. Jared forced himself not to react as Kest came to stand in front of him. He met the slave dealer’s assessing gaze with one of his own.

  “Boldness is not a good attribute in a slave,” murmured Kest. He snapped his head around to ask his brother, “And why is he gagged?”

  That damn chuckle.

  “He is a bit spirited. Nothing that the lash won’t wear out of him.”

  Kest considered the possibility. “I think the lash would be the one to suffer with this one. Three hundred sestarces.”

  “Three hundred!” For once Emperor was not amused. “You can make five times that much selling him to the gladiatorial schools. It is robbery.”

  “That is your specialty, brother. Three hundred, and not a coin more.”

  The Emperor sputtered. “Farid...”

  Kest waved away Emperor’s protests. “For once Farid would agree with me. This slave is insolent, a troublemaker, the rebellion fair shouts from his eyes.” Kest swept an appraising glance at him. “Eyes that he hasn’t the sense to keep lowered. There is not a subservient bone in his body. Recalcitrant slaves sell cheaply.”

  At a slight nod from Kest, one of his minions delivered a sharp blow to Jared’s abdomen, doubling him over and knocking the breath cleanly from his lungs. He would have fallen to the ground if the Emperor’s men had not supported him. Kest sighed heavily. “Still, he might work out in one of the silver mines of Iberia and the quarries are always looking for able-bodied slaves.”

  “Four hundred and a quarter,” Emperor countered.

  Kest looked sympathetically at his brother and sighed. “Three plus fifty. My secretary will draw up the bill of sale and see to the payment.”

  Looking like he was going to rupture a vein, the Emperor nodded in agreement, motioning his men to follow. Without their support, Jared sank to his knees. The throbbing pain in his gut only added to the fury building inside of him. Every fiber of his being called for him to resist, to fight back. But he was a slave—for the moment—and slaves who fought their masters did not live long.

  And oh, he intended to live. And escape. And find the green eyed oracle, whose gift could never begin to discern the depth of his revenge.

  Kest’s overseer pulled on the rope around his neck, urging him to back his feet. Instinct thrust resolve aside and Jared refused, only to be answered by a stinging blow across his back from the overseer’s whip.

  Kest shook his head and muttered a curse. He turned to his secretary. “Group him with that batch of criminals. Together the lot might bring enough to salvage my purse.”

  Chapter Four

  Southern Italia

  “Agh!”

  Bryna squinted, found the offending stone sliver and pulled it out of her palm. Dagda, it hurt.

  She arched backward and kneaded the burning muscles in her shoulders. Hours bent over the grindstone were taking their toll. Sticky rivulets of perspiration ran down her arms, marking trails in the fine layer of wheat dust that coated them. The heat from the blazing sun was sapping her strength as well, giving her a pounding headache. Oh, how she missed the moist, cool winds of Eire.

  This place was definitely not Eire. Bryna scooped up the last of the wheat flour she had ground, swallowed the longing for home, for her family and relegated it all to the recesses of her mind. Remembering her previous life only underscored the desolation of her current one.

  She tossed the grain into a shallow basket. Now that she was free of Coeus and his stifling room, she’d find a way to regain her freedom. But the endless duties imposed by her new master’s housekeeper left her little time to breathe much less plan an escape.

  She pressed her lips together tightly. Different master, different rules, in the end it didn’t matter; she was still a slave.

  It had all gone so wrong. The memory of the stranger ordering her death, of Coeus eagerly nodding his agreement, of two burly kitchen slaves dragging her into the courtyard still sent shudders to her core. Even now Bryna could feel the cold blade against her throat, ready to slice and drain her life’s blood.

  In the end, the only thing that saved her from death had been the reliability of Coeus’ greed. The stranger, thank the gods, had not waited to see the deed done. Coeus stopped his minions just in time and ordered her taken to the market to be sold for whatever paltry sum a barbarian might bring.

  And so she had found herself on the auction block—humiliated by the scrutiny of potential buyers with grimy hands fondling her bared breasts, purchased by the steward of a wealthy Roman visiting from Italia—desperate for help serving their entourage. She’d gained some satisfaction knowing she had indeed brought Coeus a paltry sum.

  Bryna took a deep breath, released it slowly. Finding her less than adept at serving—how many goblets of wine could one slave spill he’d bemoaned—she’d been sent to her new master’s rural estate. Her heart had nearly broken as she was put on a ship and brought across the sea. Away from Alexandria. Away from Bran.

  She took another steadying breath. At least here she was outside instead of being locked in an airless room. It made life almost bearable. If only he would leave her alone.

  In the weeks since she had lied to the man at Coeus’ behest, she’d been plagued with dreams of the man who had asked about his stolen property. Nothing as vivid as the premonition the morning before he arrived—a hot flush spread up Bryna’s neck at that memory—but detailed enough that she had yet to sleep a full night through and slaves got little enough as it was. Lips curved into a mocking smile, he would hold her gaze and whisper in a deep voice that she should wait for him. A chill ran down her arms.

  “Is that all you’ve done?”

  Bryna tensed as the stringent voice of the housekeeper brought her back to the sweltering courtyard. Shading her eyes, she looked up at the hooked nose profile of Eda, the vilicus’ wife.

  In the short time she had been at the estate, she had come to loathe this woman, for Eda was cruel and calculating. The woman was quick to use the cane she carried with her and Bryna had more than enough bruises to prove it.

  Eda motioned to two young boys standing behind her. Dumbfounded, Bryna watched them plop another huge basket of raw grain next to the mill.

  “The master returns from his duties in Rome today. We expect many guests. There will be a great feast.” She grinned, one edge of her lip catching on a misshapen tooth. “And the master does love his bread.”

  Bryna dug her fingers into the coarse gray wool of her tunic, battling the urge to throw the grain in Eda’s face. She was tired, hot, and hungry. She swallowed past the raw dryness of her throat. No good would come from protesting, yet she couldn’t help sending Eda a glare from beneath her lashes.

  “Keep your heathen evil eye off me!” Eda shrieked grabbing a handful of her hair and yanking till Bryna was certain it had been pulled out by the roots. Snatching it away from the irate housekeeper’s grasp, she rubbed at her stinging scalp. The woman had eyes like a hawk. She muttered a curse beneath her breath.

  Eda’s face went pale with fear. “Wretched girl!” She put a foot to Bryna’s shoulder and pushed. Caught off guard, Bryna fell sideways, feeling the rough surface of the grindstone scratching her arm.

  “I told Baal he made a mistake buying you. Barbarian witch. I can see it in your eyes. No human has eyes like that, always watching, knowing, waiting.”

  Bryna dabbed at the scrape. The woman was a rambling, superstitious fool.

  “When the master returns, I will see that Baal speaks to him about selling you.” Eda paused, then her eyes lit with pleasure. “Yes, to the brothels in Ostia. You’d learn your place there, soon enough. That’s where you belong, chained in the stalls waiting for customers to plow themselves between your worthless legs. Then you’d have no time to cast your witch’s sp
ells.” She sent her a withering glare then ordered, “Get back to work.” The housekeeper stalked toward the kitchen, sending slaves, children and small dogs scurrying from her path and her attention.

  Bryna swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. Stupid woman. Her devoted husband had already done the deed.

  Well in truth, he’d not completed the act though the degradation, humiliation and terror of the near rape had been enough. Dragged to a little used stable, bound into a position of submission with her legs spread wide, a gag in her mouth she’d had to endure the bastard pinching her in places that drew more pain then she could have imagined before he’d raised his tunic, his member jutting out and fallen on her like a rutting boar. Eyes squeezed shut, she braced herself for the pain.

  There had been none. Baal’s cock had gone soft before he could breach her. Her relief had been short lived as he’d taken his own failing out on her with more pain. She had savored each blow.

  He’d left on their master’s business not long after and under the watchful eye of Eda, he’d left her alone. With a long sigh, she repositioned, grasped the smooth, wooden handle of the mill and began to turn the stone like a mad woman, every bit of the anger and hatred she felt for Eda and her Roman captors making quick work of the rough husks.

  When the muscles in her arms began to cramp, she released her hold and stared at the grindstone as it slowed to a stop. She simply could not continue on like this. Servility was not in her temperament and no amount of abuse was going to put it there.

  Prideful and stubborn, her mother used to call her. A sad smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. There was no arguing that, for those same traits were probably going to see her dead at the hands of her master.

  Unless she found a way to escape.

  This one, tiny scrap of hope had kept her from sinking into madness. Once, she had almost succeeded, had gotten as far as the outer street when one of Coeus’ whores saw her and sounded the alarm. It was then that the dismal room in the crumbling tavern had become her prison.